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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672029">A Voice in the Darkness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella'>OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Voicemail</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:54:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,693</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672029</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg wins a bet and knows exactly what he wants. Some small acknowledgement from a Holmes that he's not just a dumb copper, but it turns out to mean far more than that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>221</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Voice in the Darkness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the eyebrow, every time. Greg felt it, low in his belly like a slightly clichéd romance character, but he couldn’t help it. These nights were delicious; the quiet hum of Mycroft’s voice, low and amused and somehow intimate, as though he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. That was certainly true for Greg. Sometimes he wondered what else in his life was this good. Work was satisfying in a tiring, grinding way, and he appreciated the occasional phone calls from his sister, but nothing filled his soul like these precious hours.</p><p>“I seriously doubt you would best me in such a contest,” Mycroft said, and Greg was dragged back into the moment. He’d slipped away as Mycroft stood to refill their tumblers, a slightly reckless third measure splashing into each glass before he returned to his seat.</p><p>It took Greg a couple of seconds to remember what they’d been talking about. Memory, if he recalled.</p><p>“Depending on the topic,” Greg allowed, “I’d say my memory was as good as yours.”</p><p>“Would you place a wager on such a claim?” Mycroft asked with a challenging smile to accompany the eyebrow.</p><p>Greg’s toes curled in his shoes, the only outlet he allowed himself for the tendrils of energy winding through his body. He wondered if Mycroft could tell he was doing it.</p><p>“I would,” he replied, the smile on his lips acknowledging Mycroft’s teasing tone.</p><p>There was the eyebrow again, a slight indication of pleasurable surprise, if Greg read it correctly. He was spoiled tonight.</p><p>“Very well,” Mycroft said. He swirled his Scotch, eyes never leaving Greg as he sipped. Greg wondered if he was flirting – was his behaviour deliberate? From anyone else – women in particular, though a particularly bold man or two might attempt it – Greg would expect them to end up in bed, should he be amenable.</p><p>Coming from Mycroft it was harder to tell.</p><p>“I’ll name the topic,” Greg said, “you ask the question.”</p><p>“Anything?” Mycroft asked.</p><p>“Anything,” Greg replied, his voice a whisper.</p><p>“And what would be your forfeit, should you fail to answer the question?”</p><p>Greg snorted. “No idea,” he said, suddenly more confident. “But I can tell you what I want when I do answer the question.”</p><p>His answer had taken Mycroft by surprise, and this time the smile was far wider. Mycroft’s shoulders eased back and he settled into his chair. Greg hadn’t noticed him sitting forward, but now something had relaxed him.</p><p>“And what would that be?” Mycroft asked.</p><p>“You can call me,” Greg said, “not a text, and not a message through Anthea. You can call me, personally, and leave me a voice message telling me how my brain is comparable to yours.” He grinned as real surprise registered in Mycroft’s eyes, in the flex of his fingers on his glass. “That way I can listen over and over. And there’ll be proof. A Holmes telling me I’m as smart as they are.”</p><p>“I gather my brother has offered no such assurance.”</p><p>“You gather right,” Greg said with a grin. “He’s told me several times I’m not as dim as the rest of the Yard, but that’s as far as it’s gone. This is my chance for some real recognition at last.”</p><p>Mycroft was silent, and it took Greg a second to realise the mirth had melted out of the air. Mycroft’s expression was speculative, almost sad, but before Greg could ask him about it, he spoke.</p><p>“I accept your terms,” Mycroft said, “penalty to be determined should it be required.” He nodded at Greg’s raised glass. “And from which topic shall I draw my question?”</p><p>Greg thought for a moment. For all his bravado, he knew Mycroft could come up with something truly obscure, no matter what the topic.</p><p>“So I can pick anything?” he asked, still thinking.</p><p>“As specific or broad as you wish,” Mycroft replied.</p><p>Greg nodded. Tempting though it was to be a smart arse – saying his topic was himself, for example – he was actually looking forward to the opportunity to see if he actually could remember something of substance.</p><p>“Let’s go…international cricket. The Ashes. If we’re testing memory, we’ll say seventies and eighties era,” Greg said.</p><p>Mycroft nodded. “A fair suggestion,” he allowed. His eyes lingered on the mantle for a moment, and Greg wondered what he was thinking. Was he trying to decide on a question? Eyes flicking back to Greg’s, Mycroft placed his glass on the coaster by his elbow and pulled his phone out. Greg suppressed a smile as Mycroft began to scroll, no doubt doing his research.</p><p>
  <em>Fair enough – he’d hardly have been watching cricket then. Probably polishing his Ancient Greek or something.</em>
</p><p>“Do you recall the 1978 Ashes tour of Australia?” Mycroft asked.</p><p>“Vaguely,” Greg replied with a teasing grin. “Why do you ask, Mycroft?”</p><p>“I would like you to name as many English players as possible from that team,” Mycroft told him. “Rest assured I am not relying on my own knowledge but have the England and Wales Cricket Board to guide me.”</p><p>“Sure,” Greg replied with a grin. He took a deep breath. “Alphabetically, or should we go with the starting eleven?”</p><p>Before Mycroft could do more than twitch his eyebrow, Greg closed his eyes and started speaking. He could see the grainy, overbright colours of his television in his mind’s eye, hear his father’s voice urging him to sit back, that he’d miss the big picture, sitting so close. That winter – summer in Australia, of course – was seared into his memory. Mycroft couldn’t have chosen a better example.</p><p>“Boycott, Brearley, Randall, Gooch, Gower, Botham, Miller, Taylor, Emburey, Willis, Hendrick.”</p><p>When he was done he grinned, the rush of excitement at having something special with his dad fresh after so many years. Greg held onto it for a moment before he opened his eyes. Mycroft was waiting, his face calm as his eyes rested on Greg’s face.</p><p>“An admirable effort,” he replied. Greg’s heart fluttered – had he made a mistake? – until Mycroft inclined his head. “I must admit defeat in this matter. You have a remarkable memory of that tour.”</p><p>“Yep,” Greg replied. He wasn’t going to admit his cricket knowledge from the last thirty years was woeful. “I can tell you the names of the Australians too, if you like.”</p><p>“One list of names will be quite sufficient, thank you,” Mycroft replied. “I shall take a few moments to compose the glowing acknowledgement of your towering intellect if you wouldn’t mind.”</p><p>“Not at all,” Greg said with a grin. He glanced at his watch. “Actually, I should head off. Why don’t you call me tomorrow and I won’t pick up.”</p><p>“Certainly,” Mycroft replied.</p><p>Greg was grinning as they made their farewells. The echo of Mycroft’s voice carried him through the trip home and was still ringing in his ears as he tumbled into bed.</p><p>+++</p><p>The next day Greg waited as patiently as an impatient person was able to do. They were called out to scene twice, which helped distract him, though his mood took a dive as he realised how much work these two cases would bring down on his team. One was already complicated by the sheer volume of drugs involved, making a joint effort with Vice impossible to avoid. While they would be able to help in terms of intelligence, it always slowed things down working with people whose primary interest was not solving a murder.</p><p>By the time Greg was back in the office, his shift was technically over, but the work had just begun. Sally didn’t even ask, sending out for dinner and organising the team while Greg ran over a mental list of what needed to be done before they could head home. The team was experienced enough by now to know how things ran; Greg doled out tasks and sent everyone on their way before shutting himself in the office to get his end of things started.</p><p>He’d forgotten all about Mycroft.</p><p>The missed call on his phone wasn’t unusual, and Greg was reaching for a pile of information request forms while he waited for the automated voice to give way to his voicemail. When Mycroft’s voice broke into his mind, the forms dropped from his fingers, forgotten with the first syllable.</p><p>“Hello, Gregory,” Mycroft drawled, and Greg found himself swallowing. Holy shit, Mycroft was going all out. His voice was soft, almost seductive, and Greg was even less sure about the deliberateness of his flirting now. The words flowed over Greg, indistinguishable as he revelled in the tone for almost a minute before Mycroft hung up.</p><p>It wasn’t until Sally came in and asked him if he was okay Greg realised he was sitting at his desk, phone in hand staring into space.</p><p>“Yeah,” he managed, nodding at the dinner she plonked on his desk. “Thanks.”</p><p>She didn’t ask what was wrong, thank goodness, and Greg pushed the voicemail as far out of his mind as possible. Once he’d gotten the ball rolling on these cases he could head home and listen to Mycroft’s voice over and over again. Somehow that was better motivation than the idea of improving his numbers or actually solving the murders and he found himself focussing better than he’d imagined.</p><p>Midnight was still over an hour away when Greg made it home. Not too bad, all things considered, and he didn’t even try to fool himself it was anything other than the thought of hearing the message again that had spurred him along. He shed his clothes, a perfunctory brushing of teeth all he could muster now that he was so close. Crawling into bed, Greg scooted over so he could plug in his phone and listen at the same time. He wanted to put the message on speaker but that felt exhibitionist. Ridiculous though it sounded this felt intimate, lying in bed listening to Mycroft’s voice, quiet in his ear. This time, he paid attention to the words.</p><p>“Hello, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice sounded exactly as Greg remembered. He shivered as Mycroft continued. “As per our agreement, I am calling to declare my admiration of your superior mental process.” He paused. Greg found himself holding his breath, waiting for the next words. “Your recollection of the composition of the English test cricket team of nineteen seventy-eight is remarkable. I sincerely hope you realise the high esteem in which I hold your mind predates this conversation. Despite your belief to the contrary, I have always recognised your superior ability to maintain a working relationship with a range of personalities. The ease with which you bring out the best in people is a rare skill. I believe you vastly underrate such a skill, as it underpins your professional success. More academic minds may exist, but academia in itself is not an accurate measure of the success of a human mind in navigating the world.”</p><p>Greg blinked. Taking in the words…but he couldn’t be right, could he? Carefully, he pressed 6 to replay the message. The words did not change, nor did they the third or fourth time. Mycroft admired the way his brain worked? Why had he never known this? As he played the message yet again, Greg tried to figure out if Mycroft had ever made any indication that he thought this way.</p><p>
  <em>What about the flirting?</em>
</p><p>Greg shook his head. It wasn’t flirting. To be more accurate, he had no idea if it was flirting, but given what he knew about Mycroft, it was highly unlikely.</p><p>As he pressed 6 again, Greg thought about this. What did he really know about Mycroft? He’d surmised plenty. Made assumptions from his observations, from snide remarks out of Sherlock’s mouth. But in terms of what Mycroft had actually <em>said</em>, there was precious little. For all the hours they spent together, neither actually said all that much. It was one of the things Greg really liked about their meetings, but right now he felt foolish. What did he <em>really</em> know about Mycroft?</p><p>With a sigh, Greg pressed 6 once again. Whatever he did or did not know about Mycroft, this much was clear: his voice was soothing. In the small quiet space under his duvet, Greg could admit this to himself. He felt very small right here, and surprisingly fragile. For the gently mocking tone they’d both adopted during the conversation that had led to this voicemail, Greg found himself valuing it more than he’d imagined. If Mycroft was telling the truth here – that he really had seen Greg’s mind before the previous night – it was even more important.</p><p>And he could never, ever, tell Mycroft that it was.</p><p>+++</p><p>The new cases were as difficult as Greg had imagined they would be, and his week melted into a blur of bad coffee and paperwork, gritting his teeth as he and Vice battled to find a common path through the mess of that crime scene. The more they tried to sort it out the messier it became until Greg could feel the tension headache squeezing tight around his skull, the pounding reward for a Friday night still at work after midnight. So much of the paperwork was still waiting, but his eyes swam in and out of focus as he stared at the pile. No matter how much he actually completed it still felt like he was leaving with the bare minimum done, as he had every night this week.</p><p>
  <em>Doesn’t matter. I’m done.</em>
</p><p>The trip home was a bit fuzzy, and it wasn’t until he was inside (definitely check the door locks, coat on the sofa, strip everything else off, bathroom, bed) Greg finally let out a deep breath. The painkillers wouldn’t kick in for a bit, but as he fumbled to turn down the brightness on his phone, he didn’t care. This was what he needed.</p><p>Closing his eyes, Greg listened. Mycroft’s words were familiar now, and this was fast becoming his comfort at the end of the night. He wasn’t listening to the words anymore. It was Mycroft’s tone which eased through his mind, slowing his racing thoughts and relaxing his tight muscles. As he pressed 6 again to listen once more, Greg wondered if he could get a recording of this onto another app, something where he could get it to play on a loop. It wasn’t so lonely with someone else’s voice close, and he wondered what Mycroft would think if he knew how many times Greg had listened to his voice. And in bed at the end of a long week. As his headache finally eased and Greg could slip into sleep, he pressed the button once again.</p><p>Something was different about Mycroft’s voice, but he was too tired to figure it out.</p><p>The next morning, Greg scrabbled at his bedsheets, swearing under his breath as he realised he’d neglected to plug his phone in. The battery was completely dead, so he plugged it in while he jumped in the shower. Not as much of a rush to get into the office today, though he knew he’d be in for at least eight hours if he wanted to make some headway. The morning was the same as always, if without the frantic speed of an emergency call in. He took five minutes to make a proper breakfast and pack some lunch. As the bacon fried in the pan, Greg mentally planned out his route to work. He was going to allow himself the extra ten minutes to walk the long way, past the shop with the better coffee. There was no getting around the need to go into work today but he was going to make it as enjoyable as possible.</p><p>Half an hour later Greg grabbed his stuff, leaving his phone until last. He had another charger at his desk but in his line of work Greg always tried to have a decent charge on his phone. Last night aside, of course.</p><p>The weather was half decent and being a Saturday there was less traffic but more people around. Greg’s mind was half navigating a path but he was also musing on the feeling from the night before. The way Mycroft’s voice made him feel was still there and he was surprised how much it buoyed his mood. Even now bumping shoulders with oblivious tourists looking for the House of Parliament, he carried…not the <em>sound</em> of Mycroft’s voice, but the sense of it. It helped the rest of the world fall away a bit.</p><p>When he made it to his desk, larger decadent coffee in hand, Greg was…not quite relaxed, but certainly more amenable to what he was facing. The office was quieter than usual, but with his team off, Greg knew he’d be able to concentrate today. Might even get a bit ahead.</p><p>The thought was mixed in with how he still held onto Mycroft’s voice, and after Greg had settled, he pulled his phone out, intending to plug it in. He hesitated and instead raised it, glancing around like a guilty schoolboy as he dialled up his voicemail. One listen. He’d allow himself one listen before starting work.</p><p>
  <em>You have no new messages. You have no saved messages.</em>
</p><p>Greg frowned. He’d been expecting the first part of the message, but the second…that wasn’t right. He ended the call and redialled, waiting while it connected.</p><p>
  <em>You have no new messages. You have no saved messages.</em>
</p><p>Staring at the phone, Greg blinked again and again, trying to make some sense. When was the last time he’d used his phone? Last night. He fell asleep last night listening to Mycroft’s voice. As he drifted off he’d pressed his thumb to the screen again, wanting to hear that curl of soft amusement one more time before he fell asleep.</p><p>Lowering his phone, he remembered the last thought he’d had.</p><p>
  <em>Something was different about Mycroft’s voice, but he was too tired to figure it out.</em>
</p><p>Something had been different. He’d been too tired to really register it. Had he pressed the wrong button? Lifting his phone to his ear again, Greg listened to the options.</p><p>
  <em>To delete saved messages, press 9.</em>
</p><p>It was right next to 6. Was that what happened? Had his finger slipped?</p><p>Abandoning the idea of work Greg rang his phone service provider. The woman on the other end of the line was sympathetic, but informed him that no, there was no way to restore his deleted voicemails. She agreed with Greg when he pointed out there really should be a two-step process for deleting an entire cache of saved messages.</p><p>None of that restored his voicemail.</p><p>Automatically Greg plugged in his phone, picking up his lukewarm coffee without thinking. Mycroft’s voice was gone. The feeling he’d curled close earlier now felt like it was fracturing, small pieces breaking off and dancing away, never to be grasped again. The plan he’d barely admitted to himself was to hold onto the voicemail, keeping the small jewel of a secret to buoy him when things were hard. To push more effectively at the loneliness.</p><p>And now it was gone.</p><p>Greg drank the rest of his coffee without tasting it. He had to push this aside. There was work to be done. He didn’t need this. He’d lived his whole life without it, and he was a grown man, for goodness sake.</p><p>Confidence gone, Greg pulled his inbox close. The work wasn’t going anywhere and this was what he was here for.</p><p>The next eight hours were productive, if bland. Greg worked largely on autopilot, filling in forms, writing reports, doing the kind of work that would make next week easier but required zero in terms of creative thought. The grunt work his father thought consumed his whole life was more prevalent than he’d like it to be, and usually he resented having to do it. Today he was grateful for the mindless slog, answering a thousand tiny questions as the pile slowly diminished, his phone buzzing distractingly, only to be ignored as he plodded on. By the time Greg’s watch told him it was time to go home the disappointment had settled into a kind of numb resignation.</p><p>
  <em>It’s gone.</em>
</p><p>It made sense the okay morning had eased into a more classically London late afternoon, clouds cuddling the city close, drizzle coating everything before the day melted into evening. Greg didn’t really subscribe to the idea of mood matching weather, but they did seem to align today. Turning up his collar Greg headed for the short route home. This was not weather for heading past the good coffee shop. Right now he knew what he was going to do when he got home. It wasn’t a plan so much as just what would happen. He would stop at the Indian on the corner and pick up whatever he saw first on the menu – they were fast and cheap and he ate from there often. He’d eat on the sofa, staring into middle distance as he spooned up rice and some kind of curry, before crawling into bed to ignore the world.</p><p>Greg knew he’d probably cry, even though he didn’t quite know why. He hadn’t really had anything concrete to lose, but the feeling of loss resonated in his bones. Fuck, what was the matter with him? He felt fragile, ridiculously so, and when his phone rang, vibrating deep in his pocket, he didn’t even pull it out. Whatever it was, they would call back, or find someone else, or something. He was hardly indispensable.</p><p>The walk home was as he expected. He was in and out of the Indian place in fifteen minutes, the steam out of his rice and butter chicken warming that hand as he trudged up the stairs to his flat. He’d ignored his phone another half a dozen times and figured whoever it was must have given up now.</p><p>“Gregory.”</p><p>He stopped in his tracks, fingers gripping on the plastic handle of his bag. The shoes in front of him would have given it away if he didn’t already know who had spoken.</p><p>
  <em>Nobody says my name like you do.</em>
</p><p>“What are you doing here?” he whispered without raising his eyes.</p><p>“You did not answer my messages,” Mycroft replied.</p><p>“I don’t always answer your messages,” Greg said.</p><p>He pulled out his keys and waited. Mycroft stepped aside, allowing Greg to open his door. They both moved inside, and once Greg dropped his food on the table he turned to look at Mycroft, bracing to at least make an effort at hiding his shame. His brain was racing but barely making any headway on the questions in his head.</p><p>
  <em>He never comes here.</em>
</p><p>“You may not always be available,” Mycroft said, “but you always answer your phone when you are able.”</p><p>Greg blinked. “How did you know I was available?”</p><p>Mycroft took a deep breath. “My brother rang.”</p><p>“Your brother?”</p><p>“I believe John may have been involved,” Mycroft admitted.</p><p>“Right,” Greg said cautiously. He still didn’t see the connection.</p><p>“You had plans to meet John this afternoon,” Mycroft said. “When you did not answer your phone they contacted me.” He coloured before admitting, “I may have checked your whereabouts.”</p><p>“Right,” Greg repeated. That wasn’t unexpected, not from Mycroft. When Mycroft didn’t respond, he added, “I just…I don’t know what you’re saying.”</p><p>It was another minute or two before Mycroft spoke. “I have a question. I am not sure how you will react.”</p><p>“Just ask, Mycroft,” Greg replied wearily.</p><p>“How many times did you play the voicemail I left you?”</p><p>The question took Greg by surprise. <em>How could he know?</em> “Why?”</p><p>Mycroft looked at him. “It is unusual for you not to reply to a message,” he said. “Even one so planned. I made…certain inquiries. About your call history.”</p><p>“Of course you did,” Greg muttered. He could feel the mortification rising in his face and wanted to close his eyes. This was really the last thing he wanted. The last conversation with Mycroft, probably. Because there was no way for Mycroft to know this and not be weirded out by it. “So you already know, then.”</p><p>“I do not,” Mycroft replied. “They would tell me only that I should ask you. That it was…unusual.”</p><p>
  <em>Unusual.</em>
</p><p>“So you figure I either didn’t listen at all, or I listened a lot,” Greg said.</p><p>“Yes,” Mycroft replied simply.</p><p>The silence rang and Greg knew it was up to him to break it.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck it.</em>
</p><p>“A lot,” Greg said finally. “I listened a lot.”</p><p>Mycroft nodded. “Because…” he prompted. His fingers were gripping the back of the chair. Greg wondered why he didn’t bring his umbrella.</p><p>“I could tell you it was because I liked hearing someone tell me how good I am at my job,” he said. He waited a beat. “But you’d know I was lying, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>“I will believe whatever you chose to tell me,” Mycroft said carefully.</p><p>Greg thought about how Mycroft had chosen to answer. He wanted answers, that much was clear, but he wasn’t going to push. He’d accept whatever Greg told him, which meant if Greg lied – and he knew Mycroft would know it – Mycroft would not protest, or call it out.</p><p>
  <em>Does he know?</em>
</p><p>The thought had never occurred to Greg until now, and he studied Mycroft, trying to find something in his demenour that might confirm this idea. Whether Mycroft was just very good, or Greg was too tired to see it, all he could tell was how nervous Mycroft was (hands clenching, face carefully impassive). It was hardly indicative of someone definitively on one side of the fence or the other. Greg’d been living with this for what felt like a long time, and the weight of all that was suddenly crushingly heavy. Now was the moment.</p><p>“Because I like the sound of your voice,” Greg said. He closed his eyes, pulling the truths out from where he’d not quite been ready to examine them. “I like the way you say my name. There aren’t many people who say it like that. There aren’t <em>any</em> people who say it like that.” He shrugged, self-conscious. “It was nice to have someone keeping me company. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed that.”</p><p>“Missed what?”</p><p>He looked up, meeting Mycroft’s eyes. He couldn’t meet them and speak, though, it was too much. Too raw or something. But the words had to be spoken. They fell from his lips like reluctant boulders, smashing through the careful façade they’d built between them.</p><p>“Having someone there while I fell asleep.”</p><p>“You listened at night?”</p><p>Greg nodded.</p><p>“To my voice.”</p><p>Greg nodded again, the sheer volume of his shame pressing all other emotional response from his body.</p><p>“I’m not sure I still understand why,” Mycroft said, his voice shaking on the last word. “If you wanted to tell me I would still be very happy to know.”</p><p>
  <em>He does know. Does he?</em>
</p><p>“It’s not just having any voice,” Greg said, “it’s your voice. It was like having you there.”</p><p>“And that’s something you would want?”</p><p>“Yes,” Greg said.</p><p>The word hung in the air, and he wondered if it was the last he would ever speak to Mycroft. Was this an end or a beginning?</p><p>Finally, after what felt like an age, Mycroft drew a deep breath and spoke. “Me too,” he whispered.</p><p>
  <em>Holy shit.</em>
</p><p>Greg swallowed. “I don’t know if you have any plans,” he said, “but there’s probably enough here for two.” He waved one hand at his dinner.</p><p>“Security might be a concern, should we remain here,” Mycroft said, and his use of the plural pronoun binding them together with a shiver down Greg’s spine.</p><p>“Okay,” Greg said. “Give me a minute.”</p><p>“Certainly,” Mycroft replied automatically, his eyes still disbelieving.</p><p>As Greg packed an overnight bag, he wondered what exactly he was getting into. Considering he had no idea what he wanted beyond some company at night, he almost didn’t care. From the sound of it, a voice in the darkness was all Mycroft was looking for right now as well.</p><p>And that sounded perfect.</p>
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